


I Know You're Down

by butwithspikes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Comeplay, Felching, Future Fic, M/M, Roughness, Schmoop, Top Derek, Top Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butwithspikes/pseuds/butwithspikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time tomorrow he will be back ‘home’, checking Kate's bag for charms that will kill the coven they're being sent to review. For now, Derek takes a deep breath, and buries his face in the crook of Stiles' neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know You're Down

**Author's Note:**

> Story based on the song ["In Town" by 2 Chainz ft. Mike Posner](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOWm20kibyM).

The roll of the suitcase has become a soothing one. It blurs the glinting edges of Kate’s soft voice.  
   
“Say hi to Stiles for me.”  
   
Derek hears the cruel note play in her smile; he ignores it, as always, and shuts the door without glancing at her figure fluttering through the kitchen.  
   
-  
   
Golden, crimson, and orange as the sunset leaves fall in a spiral as Derek speeds down the interstate. These are his favorite times to drive: top down, radio silenced, listening to the growl of his engine and the whip of the wind.  
   
He’s been driving for an hour when he pulls to the shoulder. He slides out of the front seat, leans against the passenger side door, breathes the sharp scent of the afternoon. The forest, the falling leaves, the ginger soft bite of chill in the air that pulls his jacket closer, warms him; makes him think of Stiles. He inhales and Stiles’ scent, Stiles’ tongue, coats his throat and blurs his vision.  
   
His eyes drift shut. The breeze brushes his body, soft. A leaf falls on his arm. It’s the tint of honey, Stiles’ eyes, and gentle against his leather jacket, Stiles’ touch.  
   
There are tears in it, though, holes poked with limbs or torn from wind. Derek squares his jaw. His brain pulses. His chest pulses.  
   
Stiles’ isn’t a fucking leaf. He’s not that fragile.  
   
Derek doesn’t brush it away as he climbs into the car. When he hits the gas, it falls away.  
   
-  
   
Echoes of laughter and orders and words are bouncing through the grill. Scott is falling into Allison’s dimples as she smiles. Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes, but he thinks about it.  
   
“She didn’t seriously – ” Allison is grinning.  
   
“She seriously did!” Stiles exclaims, borderline offended she doesn’t believe him. “She – ”  
   
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Against the background of Allison’s melodic laughter, of Scott’s grin as she smiles at him, he slides his phone open.  
   
 _-D_  
 _in town_  
   
The words seem more stark against the glare of the light. They always do, though, seem heavier and thicker and deeper when they’re from –  
   
 _-D_  
 _suite 1022_  
   
“Uh.” Stiles licks his lips.  
   
Scott’s eyes narrow. “No,” he says –  _pouts_ , really. “Come on, Stiles, it’s almost 10. Can’t you meet him tomorrow?”  
   
Allison frowns, creases unnatural on her porcelain doll features. "Is that Derek?" When Stiles doesn’t answer, she frowns deeper. “I thought you weren’t dropping everything for him anymore. Didn’t Lydia tell you that was part of the problem? You make yourself too available to him. I mean, he doesn’t even call first – ”  
   
His phone buzzes again.   
   
 _-D_  
 _stiles_  
   
“ _Stiles_.”  
   
“I at least have to tell him I’m not going to be available on tap anymore,” Stiles reasons; lies. He flows easy and eager as the Budweiser Scott is sipping for Derek. He always will.  
   
“Text him, dude!” Scott says too loudly. “You don’t have to ditch your friends to meet up with him under fake names at a sleazy motel!”  
   
“We don’t use _fake_ – ” Stiles begins, also too loud, before he notices gazes and eyebrows raised in their direction. Lowering his pitch, he says, “We don’t use fake names. And Derek only stays at Home in the Hills. That’s like, our own brand of the Doubletree.”  
   
Scott blinks. “You don’t use fake names?”  
   
“Why would we use fake names? We both grew up in this town. Danny’s  _boyfriend_ is the general manager.”  
   
His thigh jumps under his phone. The message is blank but Stiles can read Derek’s eyes dark and deep as damp earth. He bites his lip, sting nothing as sharp or sweet as the little pains Derek nips into him, and his cock burns hot and plumps fat under his jeans.  
   
“No, man. You have to be strong!”  
   
“And I’m going to be,” Stiles says as he slides out of his booth, unable to explain how this is his strength: waiting, wanting, staying still at his door until Derek knocks against it. He lies to ease their heavy eyes. “As soon as I get to Derek’s suite I’m going to explain to him how he can’t just expect me to drop my life and come to his suite at his whim. And I’m going to be firm. Very firm. And  _stern_.”  
   
He passes Lydia just as she’s driving into the parking lot. She sees him despite his attempt to duck his head. His phone chimes a moment later, Lydia’s ringtone. He turns his phone off.  
   
-  
   
Stiles is talking as soon as the door handle turns.  
   
“Hey, sorry it took me so long, I almost wasn’t able to come – ”  
   
His voice falls to the floor as Derek, Derek’s water warmed and slicked skin, move to the door.   
   
Predator slanted eyes glint, teeth glint, skin glint. Derek rubs a towel through his hair. It’s smaller than the towel slung low around his hips, but not much.  
   
“Oh, Stiles,” Derek grins, humor and hunger dripping and makes Stiles’ skin sweat. “I’m sure you can.”  
   
A beat passes before Stiles strings bad timing and bad humor together. He levels Derek with a flat stare.   
   
“Ha,” Stiles croaks, dry. “Why don’t we leave the jokes up to me, okay? We both know I’m the funny one.”  
   
“I can be funny.” Derek smirks. There’s not a trace of humor in it and Stiles licks his lips. Derek  _watches_ him.  
   
Feeling light, weak and light and  _eager_ , stupid the way Derek always makes him, he takes a deep breath. “That was the only funny thing you’ve ever said.”  
   
Smirk in place, Derek raises a brow. He steps back, too, inviting Stiles in with the movement, but Stiles can’t move. He’s caught in the static electric heat of Derek’s eyes, the smell of Derek’s skin. Seeing Derek’s god carved beauty is always a semi-truck to the brain after so many weeks.   
   
“Stiles.” His name is spoken low and deep, with purpose. It’s a  _purr_ if lions  _purred_. Derek dips his thumb under his towel, loosens it, and Stiles watch with a pitiful but burning lurch of  _want want want_ as it falls to the floor. “Come.”  
   
-  
   
Logically Derek knows he can’t just lock Stiles in this room until he has another few days between cases, but these days are his vacations from reality. That includes sanity and what he’s  _supposed_  to feel. He wishes he could just walk through the door and have Stiles warming his sheets. He pretends, in these moments, he could have it somehow, even if he had to shackle Stiles to the bed while he was gone. Not that Stiles would  _mind_.  
   
His cock is already thick and curved perfectly against the soft swell of Stiles’ ass. Thighs pale and sweet as cream shake around his middle and Stiles grips his hair between his fingers, mumbling between moans that he’s not available or won’t be available or something that Derek can’t hear over Stiles’ heart beat and rushing blood.  
   
“Hey,” Stiles groans, frustrated and high. He digs the nails of one hand into Derek's scalp, tugs a tuft of ebony with the fingers of the others. The little sting is more of an annoyance, a mosquito buzz, than an actual pain or deterrent. Derek just sucks Stiles' neck harder. " _H_ - _hey -_ are you -  _fuck -_ you listening to me?"  
   
"No," Derek growls against Stiles' spit slick skin. It's hot from Derek's teeth and Stiles' blood. It trembles under Derek's tongue when he tastes the rose blooming mark his want has planted.   
   
Words start tumbling from the pillow cradle of Stiles' mouth. As much as Derek has missed that voice, the lighting flashes of words and thoughts that pulse frantic in Stiles' brain, Derek has been craving the taste of it. He's been craving the burn of Stiles' clever tongue, cauterizing his hollow spaces.  
   
He sinks his fingertips deeper into soft flesh and turns them, carrying Stiles toward the bed. Stiles' makes a distressed noise at the sudden movement. The sound falls into Derek's throat. Derek swallows it whole, the way he wants to swallow Stiles, and follows Stiles' body to the feather soft comforter.   
   
They kiss like their mouths are moving water and their throats are deserts. The first time is always too close to desperation for Derek to be comfortable with, but his lips and fingers and cock don't really care how much they widen the tear in his chest in these moments. His body aches numb and Stiles' touch is the only thing that  _hurts good_.   
   
Stiles will fall asleep as soon as Derek makes him come for the second time. Derek will watch the rise and fall of his hummingbird heart, will hate everything in the universe for several moments, then fall asleep himself, lulled by Stiles' breathing. After sex and sleep softens their hunger, they will kiss more slowly, languid and lazy and heated. Derek will eat Stiles  _softly_ , make him whimper and cry into the pillow, then Stiles will ride him so sweetly their teeth will ache.   
   
There was a time Derek could fool himself into believing the morning-midnight-few-hours-later was for Stiles benefit. It's more difficult to lie to himself now, though, and while he knows Stiles mewls and squirms for honey warm affection, it's Derek who  _needs_ it. Stiles might want it, but Stiles wants  _everything_ \- all of Derek, which isn't nearly enough, because Derek is tattered and Stiles is strong woven silk.   
   
Derek can't give him everything. It would hurt too much to pull all the shards out of his chest and it would sunder the agreement that keeps his pack safe and Kate Argent from hunting blood thirsty and free. Derek can give him this, though, can give him bruises and hickeys and orgasms, can make him ache so sweet and laugh and tear up until his lashes stick to the soft slide of his cheekbone.   
   
So Derek gives, as much and as fiercely as he can. It's not enough to  _keep_ Stiles but it's enough to have him a few stolen nights or afternoons a month, which is better than the nothing Derek has when he's in his suburban facade or chaperoning Kate's hunts.   
   
"Wait," Stiles breathes as Derek loses himself in the candied hollow of his collarbones.   
   
That makes Derek pause. He lifts his head and watches Stiles pant. Stiles' cheeks are soft and red, like his mouth, like his throat, and Derek licks his lips, hungry.  
   
"Oh - fuck it," Stiles hisses. His hands tangle in Derek's hair again and yank. Derek follows with a low hiss and a tsunami crash of lust.   
   
-  
   
Stiles sucks Derek's tongue until his own feels numb. His jaw aches and spit slips over his skin and it's actually kind of uncomfortable, kind of gross, but Stiles has  _missed_ this frenzy. He gives himself to it freely.   
   
No one kisses him the way Derek does, did even before he'd been assigned bodyguard/baby sitter of Kate-pretty-but-psycho-Argent. No one tears Stiles' body apart and looks at him as if he's the most fragile, breakable thing breathing. No one tastes him like they're desperate to imprint his sweat on their tongues. No one is so wildly wanton or heated.   
   
Something in the brutality of Derek's fingers stretching his hole with too little lube, too little patience, too much ravenous hunger, makes Stiles shake the way no one else can.   
   
Stinging, Stiles grunts, "C'mon _,_ c'mon, ready for you - "  
   
Derek nips at his hipbone and twists his fingers  _just right_. Stiles groans, bucks into three wild fingers, digs his nails into Derek's shoulders.   
   
"Come  _on_ \- "  
   
Stiles almost yelps - in a full grown man kind of way - as Derek grips his ass with the hand not currently trying to carve out Derek's place inside and flips him. All it takes is Derek's palm lifting and pushing to bring him to his belly. Derek doesn't even have to slide his fingers from Stiles' hole, clinging hot and hungry to his knuckles.   
   
Before Stiles can even form a somewhat coherent thought, the tip of Derek's tongue is making a short, firm slide over his stretched rim.   
   
"F-fucking tease," Stiles stutters. He can't feel or see it, but he knows Derek is smirking feral against the slope of his back.   
   
Derek slides his index finger from Stiles' body. Stiles nearly whines, but Derek slips his tongue in the empty ache, pushing lava hot, lava thick spit alongside his fingers and the glide of lube.   
   
Crazy and high as Stiles feels at the sloppy pressure, he really, really needs to come. It's been five weeks since he felt the burn of Derek's cock, two since a stranger's hands left him shaky with pleasure, and that particular hook-up had been a poor fix for the need electrifying Stiles' veins. He doesn't get to come the first time unless it's on Derek's dick, which is frustrating and stupid in ways that Stiles has no problems with unless Derek decides to take forever working Stiles up and open.   
   
A high, pitiful noise leaves his throat as the rest of Derek's fingers slide out. Burning palms spread him wide, open and raw, and Derek licks so deep inside of him Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if there was blood or bone smeared across his lips. Groaning, Stiles’ hands find the back of Derek's head, press him closer and impossibly further. Derek's dark grumble is lost in his body.   
   
"Fuck me," he practically  _gasps_. He hates how soft the tumble of his rasp is but he ignores the too open feeling in his stomach and ass. "Derek, want your cock, c'mon,  _need_ it - "  
   
He manages to shut his mouth before he babbles any more desperate. He tries to stay away from that word -  _need_ \- because it's too honest and too deep for what they can get their fingers around now. Derek's tongue stills mid-frenzy-driving thrust.   
   
For a terrifying moment, Stiles thinks his stupid tongue has fucked his fucking all to hell. This thing between them may be about need (deep, primal need that keeps them buried in one another) but it hurts, how fiercely they need and how they can’t have it.   
   
When Derek pulls away, Stiles wants to whine, take the word back.   
   
"On your knees," Derek  _orders_.   
   
Surprise and shock and lust (Derek could just manhandle him into position, does most of the time, but he also seems to get some sort of thrill when Stiles does as he's told, which is only ever in these moments) roll through Stiles' gut. "On yours," he bites back, but he's scrambling to his hands and knees as he huffs it.   
   
Then the burning head of Derek's cock presses at his hole and he can't say anything. He holds his breath as he waits for Derek to press in, fill him, own him completely where he's only ever been borrowed by other bodies.  
   
Derek pushes nearly halfway in. It's too rough, spreads Stiles too quickly. His head hangs as every bone in his neck trembles. Derek thrusts, a jerk of his hips, not sinking deeper but wider. Stiles wants to rock back, swallow Derek's cock whole with the empty ache in his hole, but he breathes instead.   
   
A few more rocking movements has Derek sliding home.  
   
-  
   
Once Derek is buried in Stiles' vibrating heat, he stills. He has to take a moment to inhale their scents mingling. His own body shakes under their combined heat. It's always like this; always has been like this, since the first time Derek hollowed Stiles out and poured himself inside.   
   
Derek hasn't felt whole, safe, warm, since he lost his family to the flames wayward hunters set (the flames that had danced in Kate's eyes but didn't leave her hands, only because others got to the matches first), but when he's still in Stiles' all consuming light, he feels like he's home.   
   
His hips move of their own hunger. They move fast, press deep, set a rhythm to bruise them both and he isn't even fucking Stiles for real yet. He's just re-learning Stiles' heat, re-teaching Stiles his own. The latter doesn't take long: Stiles takes him so good, always has, just opens right up for him with moans and whimpered words like he was made specifically to withstand the harsh snaps of Derek's hips and the burn of his fat cock.   
   
Stiles is talking - never stopped, never does, but the never ending stream soothes Derek's deafening silence, cool stream lapping wounds - as he reaches a hand behind him. Long fingers grip his hip, slide against his ass and press hard enough they would leave bruises if he could bruise. Stiles urges him faster with his hold.  
   
Derek drops his head to lick a knob of Stiles' supine spine. "You want more?" he rasps against Stiles' skin.   
   
"Yes,  _duh_ , what do you think m-more, Derek,  _more_ means, fucking - fucking, I can take it - "  
   
"Yeah," Derek agrees with a growl and a deep, sharp thrust. Stiles groans and presses back against him. "Yeah, you can."  
   
And Stiles does take it, takes it all with groans and goads and his hips pumping just as wildly as Derek's, takes it so god damn pretty Derek snarls and pushes Stiles flat on his belly. He stretches his body to nip Stiles' soft throat. When Stiles makes a hurt little noise, greedy with pain, Derek licks the burn.  
   
"Thought you said you could take it, Stiles."  
   
"Can," Stiles pants. "A-anything you th-think you can throw, big guy."  
   
A smile bites at Derek's lips. Stiles' personal brand of dirty talk hits Derek in spaces he thought would remain forever dark. It was Stiles and his ridiculous words, his demands, his pleas, that made Derek realize sex could close wounds instead of rip them wider, could make his bones and brain blur, could be  _fun_. Pleasure hasn't been as pleasing since Derek tasted it with Stiles. It's the honey that keeps drawing Derek back, that won't let Derek go.   
   
Derek yanks Stiles back up then, hands bruising Stiles' hips, hands pulling Stiles' ass flush against him in a too quick, too rough movement that has Stiles keening.   
   
" _Fuck_ , yes - " Stiles bites.   
   
Derek fucks in hard, pulls out hard, fucks in even harder. The bed shakes. If the world was shaking, Derek wouldn't be surprised, but he wouldn't notice, either, too enthralled by the obscene way Stiles' asshole stretches for his dick, clings to it, and by the choked words Stiles is rambling.   
   
When he curls his hand around Stiles' cock, Stiles nearly sobs.   
   
"Yes, God, yes, that - c'mon, Derek, make me come, make me, make me - "  
   
Growling, Derek sweeps his fingers to Stiles' balls, palms them roughly until he smells the faintest hint of damp salt.   
   
Stiles is begging - he calls it demanding, but it's begging, and it's desperation, and it's fierce, and it's all for Derek ( _only_ for Derek, no matter how many scents are left lingering on Stiles body).  
   
"Such a - fuck - fucking tease, fucking  _prick_ , s-stop teasing, come on, come on, touch me, touch me, touch me - "  
   
"Am," Derek grunts, because at this point his hips are snapping hard enough to break Stiles into pieces and he's only capable of single syllables.   
   
" _Prick_." Stiles squirms against him, cries out in frustrated need. "Touch my cock Derek.  _Please_ , okay,  _please_ ,  _please_ ,  _please_  touch my cock. Jerk me off. I - "  
   
Derek palms the length of Stiles' cock, rubs the heel of his hand over the pool of pre-come at the slit, then wraps his hand around Stiles completely. Stiles groan-whimper-cries and jerks into Derek's hand. Almost immediately, he pushes back onto Derek's dick. He makes a frustrated noise like he can't decide what he wants more and just starts rocking, fucking his cock into Derek's fist, fucking himself onto Derek's cock. His pace is frantic.   
   
The slick sounds of their bodies moving together almost drowns the buzzing in Derek's brain. He tries to stave off his own orgasm but his mind and body and nose and mouth are full of  _Stiles_. He comes with a deep noise. He keeps fucking Stiles through it, wringing every ounce of pleasure from his body until the only thing moving under his skin is pain. He fucks Stiles through that, too, jacks his cock and hits all the shocking points inside of him until Stiles cries and spills over his fist.   
   
-  
   
As soon as Stiles comes, Derek is slipping his softening cock from his body. It drags along Stiles' too sensitive, too raw insides. He curls his fingers into the pillow, collapses when the crown of Derek's dick pops free.   
   
"Thought you couldn't come, Stiles," Derek breathes against his ear.   
   
Stiles' witty retort dies as Derek presses come covered fingers to Stiles' mouth. Instead of words, Stiles spills a groan and laps at the sticky tips. He's going to suck them clean but as he wraps his mouth around Derek's hand, Derek moves. He has less than a moment to breathe through the dizzied pleasure before Derek's tongue is lapping hot come from the backs of his thighs.   
   
It's gross, and it's  _hot_ , and Stiles is pretty sure it's a werewolf thing, because no one else he's ever been with does this. He's tried, because he goes so crazy for it when Derek does, because he watches  _Derek_ go so crazy for it, but anytime he's gotten close to licking himself out of someone else's body, he's only received raised eyebrows and kicks in the face for his trouble.   
   
He's shaking but his body is almost accustomed to the over-stimulation. Years of fucking have nearly trained the shivers out of him. Nearly.   
   
"S'too much," Stiles whines. It's not a lie but he doesn't mean it.   
   
Derek ignores him anyway. He funnels the tip of his burning tongue into Stiles, whose still loose and sloppy and wanton. Stiles has always meant to make some sort of dog-wolf-canine quip when Derek does this, except his brain short circuits every time. His sarcasm and hilarity get crisscrossed. All he can do is rock himself down onto Derek's tongue, make hurt--more-please noises and occasionally string a few half-formed words together.   
   
"Does that even taste good?" he mumbles against the cool cotton pillow.   
   
He barely realizes he's spoken before Derek is sliding up his body. Derek's chest is hot and oppressive against his shoulders. Derek's fingers are firm in his hair, tugging and angling him so Derek can kiss him deep and filthy. He whimper-groans at the sour taste of earth Derek licks into his mouth but he opens for it, tangles his own tongue with Derek's to suck the musk and slick of come into his mouth.   
   
Derek pulls away, runs his nose over Stiles' cheek, the tip of his jaw, the lobe of his ear.   
   
"Does it, Stiles?" he rasps, voice dark and throat raw and  _ugh_ , Stiles did that - well, Derek mostly did the doing, but still, he used Stiles to do it, and it's unbelievable no matter how many times it happens.   
   
"Like chicken," Stiles chokes.   
   
He swears he can hear Derek laugh and roll his eyes at the same time. He doesn't call him on either, though, because Derek is urging him to his back.   
   
As soon as his shoulders hit the crisp snow sheets, Derek settles between his legs. Strong hands wrap his still trembling legs to settle them on broad shoulders. Stiles makes a sound even he can't identify as Derek licks him clean. His dick twitches back to life, pitiful and raw and needy.   
   
When Derek's done sucking his come from Stiles' shuddering body, he licks a hot trail to the tip of Stiles' drooling dick. He does smile, then, grins feral at the low, wanton whine Stiles makes.   
   
Stiles raises his hips. He tries to push inside of Derek's mouth and push Derek's mouth away at the same time. He's infinitely thankful for the hunger that makes Derek still his hips and swallow his dick in one hot, mind numbing move.   
   
-  
   
It only takes a few minutes for Stiles to fall asleep. Derek's thumb sweeps the nape of his neck until his eyes drift shut and his breathing shallows. The beat of his heart is calming against Derek's ears.   
   
His own cock twitches hot against his thighs, but the heat in his belly is a detached warm breeze. There is no bite to his arousal. He's sated.   
   
The satisfaction won't last, he knows. It stretches only as long as Stiles' warmth drenches his side.   
   
This time tomorrow he will be back ‘home’, checking Kate's bag for charms that will kill the coven they're being sent to review. The witches aren't hostile but hunters like to be sure creatures don't develop any nasty habits when they aren't being watched by guarded eyes.   
   
Kate's voice echoes in his head and he shuts his eyes as if it will shut her up. Her taunts are nothing like Stiles', which are designed to goad Derek's mouth and hips into action. She thinks she's tempting the monster to the surface, has no idea its already buzzing alive on his skin. She thinks she can get him to hurt her, make her bleed, show that a wolf can never resist a sheep, but Kate's not prey. She's a predator the same as he is.   
   
She wields the weapons that would make  _her_ bite, but they don't event make Derek flinch. His families faces float in the corner of his eye, always, and he would never blacken all they taught him.   
   
In the still quiet, he imagines his family would be proud. He's kept their memory alive, trained others to control their wolves, saved others who walk only in the night. He's kept Kate's own monster caged. He's got - sometimes - Stiles, who he knows his mother would adore. They would chat happy and sweet in the Hale kitchen and Cora would whisper about his ass loud enough for him to hear, to make his cheeks burn, and his father would -   
   
Derek takes a deep breath. He buries his face in the crook of Stiles' neck. His chest seizes when Stiles' smiles in his sleep and presses closer, wrapping Derek in languid arms. He falls asleep breathing around the ache.   
   
-  
   
They sleep through the night. It's a rare occurrence for them, but Stiles was bone weary when he drove to Home in the Hills. Derek must have been, too, given the forest rattling snores he's breathing. Stiles imagines being Kate's guardian slash hunting partner must be exhausting.   
   
Watching Derek sleep, he wonders if they still touch. He doesn't think so - Derek hates Kate with the raging fires of hell - but he wouldn't blame Derek for taking physical comfort in her cold embrace.   
   
He tells himself he wouldn't blame Derek, anyway, but his heart  _aches_ at the thought. He's wondered before. He's never asked. He doesn't like thinking about what Derek does when he's not by Stiles' side, is sure he would like talking about it even less, and even more sure Derek would clam sullen and dark if he even mentioned the stray painful thought.   
   
Also, and he knows it makes him a bad, not nice, petty, possessive, jealous, ridiculous asshole, he likes the idea that he's the only one Derek is fucking. That he's the only one Derek  _wants_. Derek is the only he wants, after all, even if he's not the only person he sleeps with. (He has  _needs_ , which are actually less physical and more mental, more for the sake of keeping his brain from shattering under the weight of how lonely and cold his bed is.)  
   
The shrill, cheerful ring of Abba shatters Stiles' contemplation. He nearly jumps out of bed, but not as quickly as Derek jerks awake.   
   
Werewolf hearing. Right. The reminder tone might not be a particularly fun thing to wake up to.   
   
"Oh shit!" Stiles exclaims as his fuzzy brain snaps into realization.  _The reminder tone_ \- "Shit, shit,  _shit_. What time is it?" he babbles as he crawls over Derek's body to grasp the side table clock. 7:23. "Shit!"  
   
"Stiles," Derek mumbles, bleary and deep.   
   
Stiles is already scrambling off of him. He blinks the sleep from his eyes as he searches for his clothes. Did they make it to the bed before they got naked? No, Derek wasn't wearing clothes -  
   
He finds his underwear, t-shirt, button-up, jeans and shoes in a wrinkled pile near the door. Oh. Yeah. He barely made it past the threshold before Derek started pulling his clothes off.   
   
"Stiles."   
   
He pops his head through his shirt to see Derek sitting up on the bed, watching him.   
   
"Engagement party," he explains as he tries to slip into his jeans without falling over. " _Lydia's_ engagement party, and I'm  _late_ , and I'm  _dead_. So, so dead.”  
   
Derek keeps blinking as he gathers his shoes and hop-stumble-rolls towards the bed. He shimmies one shoe on, tries to stuff his left foot into the other one.  
   
“Oh my  _God_ , these stupid shoes – ”  
   
“You’re leaving.”  
   
Stiles blinks then; that’s usually his line.  
   
He looks over his shoulder to see Derek propped on his elbows.  
   
Something not quite as sour as guilt but just as sharp stings Stiles’ chest. He suddenly feels like an asshole for rushing to run out on Derek, to leave him alone.  
   
“You could come with?” he suggests, throat feeling dry. Derek’s thick brows rise. “I mean, you haven’t seen anyone in a while, and that might be…nice.”  
   
Even to his own ears, he doesn’t sound very convincing.  
   
Derek watches him for a moment before saying, “I don’t think Lydia would appreciate me showing up without an invitation.”  
   
“She said I could bring a date.” Stiles nearly winces at his words. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling flushed and 17 again.  
   
“No,” Derek says slowly.  
   
Stiles drops his gaze to the comforter. Stupid, really, to have asked Derek to be his  _date_  –  
   
“I have to leave.”  
   
He cuts his eyes to Derek, who is still watching him with dark, heavy eyes.  
   
“Right,” he says. He licks his lips, shakes his head, mentally slaps a sliver of sense into himself. “Right, no. Of course you do.”  
   
“Stiles.” Derek it says it firmly. It stops Stiles mouth, his brain, his aches. “I – ”  
   
“It’s cool. It’s – I know it’s a drive, and you’re busy, and you can’t always stay for a few days, so I – I get it. I’ll say hi to everyone for you.”  
   
Derek nods.  
   
After Stiles slips into his button up, he crawls up the length of Derek’s body in what he hopes is a sultry movement – suspects is a ridiculous one, but hey, it keeps Derek coming back, so… - and kisses him goodbye. It starts chaste, their mouths brushing and beating soft as wings, but then Derek’s wicked tongue slides velvet over his bottom lip.  
   
When Stiles manages to slip his mouth away, Derek nips his throat. He tilts his head, offers Derek everything he has. Then his eyes fall to the clock.  
   
“Shit,” he curses sharply again. “I really – I’m sorry, but I  _have_ to be there. Like, yesterday.”  
   
Derek kisses him. It is a final, silencing, deafening kiss.  
   
-  
   
After Stiles scrambles from the room, stumbling with only one shot on his foot and the other hanging off his long, graceful fingers, Derek doesn't move. He stares at the ceiling. He breathes. He closes his eyes. But he doesn't move; he can't.   
   
If he so much as twitches, he'll catch a scrap of the warmth he and Stiles seared into the bed. It will seep into his skin and when it cools, he'll crave Stiles' in his very pores, ache for the heat of Stiles frantic body and quick words.   
   
Stiles scent is everywhere. It clogs his brain. The smell of Stiles' sweat, come, voice, sweet slick spit, is heady and dizzying and sharp. Hooks of Stiles' smell, hot as metal, are sinking quick, heavy, into his lungs.   
   
Snarling, Derek pushes himself from the bed. He stalks towards the window, thoughts and instincts racing as they crash against each other, and barely realizes he's about to yank the curtain back, search for Stiles' figure or Jeep parked outside. He snatches his hand back to his side, curls it into a fist.   
   
He's a stupid, twisted, snarling mess. He always is after Stiles. He always has been.   
   
It cuts and frustrates and growls, deep in his brain and deep in his belly, that he has Stiles only in glimpses. Nights that never last long enough. Afternoons spent tumbling in the honeyed California sun and the honeyed shine of Stiles' eyes, Stiles' laughter, Stiles' god damn  _mouth_. Quick, dirty texts and conversations when Derek can spare the time and overcome the ache that seems to only worsen when he has Stiles but doesn't really  _have_ him.   
   
And now, in one of their few stolen moments, bathed in the autumn light and simmering in need, Stiles has been yanked back into reality. Lydia's engagement party might as well be pulsing a million miles away. Stiles feels so far out of Derek's grasp.   
   
Derek runs a hand over his forehead, presses his heavy, blurry eyes, scrapes his stubble. There's no point focusing and clenching his fangs against things he can't change, against things he already knows. Stiles is only his in flashes of light. When he's not Derek's, not underneath or beside or on top or right next to Derek, he's his own Stiles: the Stiles with a job and friends and family, with obligations and opportunities.   
   
That isn't quite right though, and Derek thinks it with a frown. Stiles is his own even when he's beneath Derek's hands and mouth and skin; even when Derek has him pinned and shaking or is stroking the soft skin of his belly and burying his nose into the nape of his neck, Stiles isn't completely his. The life he lives is still beating, turning solidly with the rest of the world.   
   
Not for the first time, Derek stares hard into a splash of sunlight and wonders if he should unwrap his hands from Stiles' body.   
   
He could offer all he'll take from Stiles in the future and walk away. Stiles could have love, then, real and constant and sturdy, not the fleeting, rushed devotion Derek can give only in moments that are stretched farther and farther apart.   
   
He should offer all that to Stiles. He should offer everything Stiles deserves.   
   
The denim of his jeans feels rougher after the smooth, calming cream of Stiles' skin. Black slides over his knees and they ache for the balm of Stiles' soft, trembling thighs. His shirt feels too tight as he slides it over his head, tight fabric clinging oppressive instead of comforting, the way Stiles' lean arms when they cling too tightly to his middle, the way Stiles' wide, hot hands feel when they press too sharply against his chest.   
   
His skin feels wrong without Stiles sliding against it.   
   
There is enough time for Derek to steal a few hours of sleep. He could bury his face into the scent of his and Stiles' fucking, their mingled sweat and panted need, and he could dream of sinewy muscles and milk cool, silken skin, no tingle of dark perfume and even darker lips to infect his rest.   
   
When he woke up, he'd want Stiles. He always wakes wanting Stiles, but Stiles would be close, just a text away, and Derek doesn't know that he would keep his fingers still, doesn’t know that he wouldn't text Stiles his dream or a picture of his heavy, blood hot cock, pulsing with hunger only Stiles' body can ease.   
   
He's too selfish, he thinks, bitter and solemn. Stiles would say he isn't selfish enough.   
   
He sighs as he falls to sit on the bed. The should's and shouldn'ts swirling in his head will mean nothing to Stiles; they never have before. The two times Derek has tried to ease his maw from Stiles' skin, Stiles has squirmed and whined and clenched his own teeth tight into Derek's jugular, kept them buried so deeply in each other that neither of them could disengage without tearing some vital organ.   
   
Derek slides on his socks, smiling soft and stupid and raw as he thinks of nights stolen when Stiles was too young and sweet for the way Derek wanted him. He remembers Stiles scowling, demanding Derek take his socks off because it was making his feet hot. He remembers Stiles telling Derek he needed to pay more attention to his own comfort; his own happiness. Stiles' voice was so soft as he mouthed against Derek's jaw -  _you deserve to feel good, y'know, to have good things in your life_.   
   
Stiles is the good in his life. Stiles told him, body shaking fierce and firm, eyes flashing gold and beautiful, that he would need that good more than ever if he planned to take babysitting Kate Argent on as repentance for Peter's massacre, as an alternative to allowing the hunters to keep her in line.   
   
The Alpha in him rallies at the demands Stiles made of him, continues to make, but deep in dark, evergreen forests, under the soothing moonlight, it calms at the strength of Stiles' devotion and strength.   
   
It only takes him a few more minutes to dress and gather his bag. He doesn't allow himself to linger.   
   
He knows he'll be back.   
   
-  
   
The smell of greasy, cooking pepperoni fills Stiles with the kind of joy only food that's bad for him can. He breathes in the scent, snuggles back into his couch, and allows his eyes to drift as the sound of Samuel L. Jackon's booming voice washes over him. Scott will want him to rewind the TV back to the beginning, even though they've both seen Honey Bunny hold the diner to its knees at least a dozen times, so he pays only half-attention to Sammy's epic recital of the bible verse that doesn't exist.   
   
His phone buzzes on the table. He isn't going to bother reaching for it, but when it buzzes again, he rolls his eyes and pitches himself forward to gather it in his hand.   
   
It's not Scott.  
   
 _-D_  
 _winded down two days earlier. kate wants to visit her brother._  
   
Stiles can't stop the instant grin the spreads across his face or the hot, hungry twitch of his cock.   
   
 _-D_  
 _we'll be there in 4 hrs. 3 if i speed._  
   
One palm drifts to his crotch, heel stoking the pulse beating in his dick while he types his message with the other hand.   
   
 _so i'll see you in 2?_  
   
Stiles imagines there's a growl rumbling in Derek's throat when he texts back.  
   
 _-D_  
 _be. ready._  
   
A shudder, pleasant and dark and everything Stiles craves, tumbles over his skin, deep into his muscles, bones.   
   
He speed dials Scott. The smallest sliver of guilt nags at him, but he reasons, very reasonably, that Scott doesn't want to be here while Stiles fucks himself open on his fingers and works a small, black plug in his ass - the one that always makes Derek growl so loudly the neighbors think Stiles is hiding a hell hound in his apartment, that makes Derek's fingers even rougher and his eyes so very, very soft and warm.   
   
Scott answers on the third ring.  
   
"Hey." He sounds out of breath. "Sorry, I could  _not_  find my keys. I'm on my way."  
   
 "Actually, my boredom is no longer making my brain melt of my ears. So. As sweet as it was to offer to come to save me, your shining armor will no longer be required."  
   
"Oh. What's up? 'Cause I haven't seen  _Pulp Fiction_ in years."  
   
"We watched it over Christmas."  
   
"Oh. Well. Months, years. Same difference, right?"  
   
"You just want my pizza." Stiles wrinkles his nose. "That sounded sexual. I'm not sure how."  
   
"I do just want your pizza." Stiles wrinkles his nose again. "Uh. That did sound. Weird. Anyway. I really did wanna hang out. But that's cool. I'll just run to Allison's. They're doing family stuff or whatever but I'm sure it'll be cool if I drop in."  
   
"Uh," Stiles murmurs. "That might not be the most super duper idea you've ever had."  
   
"Why? Her dad's making deer chili."  
   
"Well you better eat and run, dude. Kate's gonna be there in like 2 hours."  
   
Scott groans, a miserable sound that Stiles empathizes with completely. "Kate?" He sounds like he's pouting. "She's supposed to stay in Oregon until she gets less crazy. Wait. How do you know that?" Stiles doesn't get a chance to answer before Scott is groaning again. " _Stiles_."  
   
"I'm sorry," Stiles says plaintively, not sorry at all. "Derek's a lot better at curing my boredom than you. No offense."  
   
" _Stiles_."  
   
"I'm a shitty friend, okay, I know. I break plans with my best bro so I can get laid. I know it's a problem. But I can't..." He bites his lips, chews on the bottom plush of his mouth before sighing. His voice is soft when he says, "I haven't seen him in nearly a month, man."  
   
"That's why you need a boyfriend who lives  _here_ , not with a psycho in another state. Or girlfriend. Or - do you still date girls? Are you gay now?"  
   
Tension begins to bloom hot in Stiles' skull. He hates this part. Friends telling him he needs to let go, he deserves more, he's wasting his time. They don't understand.   
   
He's seen Derek  _bleed_ for him. He's felt Derek's heart shudder and shatter and break, cradled Derek's scuffed and hollowed pieces in his hands, tasted the ashes on his skin before brushing them away. He's had tears gaping as wide as galaxies and Derek has sewn them with his teeth and tongue, with his silence and heavy looks.   
   
They've hurt for each other and healed for each other. They've almost died for each other. They've  _lived_ for each other.   
   
That's not the kind of love and history anyone with a will to fight walks away from.   
   
"I know you don't get it," Stiles sighs. "But there's no one else. No one I'm ever gonna - I don't settle, y'know. I don't give up. Derek doesn't either."  
   
Scott is quiet for several moments.   
   
"I don't want you to settle," he finally says. "I just want you to be happy."  
   
"I am."  
   
"Happier than you are now. Happy, like, all the time."  
   
"No one's happy all the time."   
   
When Scott doesn't say anything, Stiles runs his palm over his head.   
   
"I'm better than happy. I'm - I'm satisfied."  
   
"I don't want to hear about your sex life!"  
   
"Not like  _that_." Stiles pauses to grin to himself. "Not just like that. I'm - How many people can say they've almost died for the person their with? And would do it again? And would have their lover do the same?"  
   
"Ugh," Scott murmurs, and Stiles can practically hear him cringing. "I can't believe you just said  _lover_."   
   
Stiles can't, either. It's not really the best way to describe Derek, but Stiles doesn't think 'soul mate' or 'true love' really sounds that much better, even if they are more accurate.   
   
"Okay. Okay. I just - everyone always wants me to talk to you about it, so I tried. I'm going to run to Allison's and eat as much chili as I can before Kate gets there."  
   
"Sounds like a plan, man."  
   
"I hope you have a good night with Derek," Scott says, soft and sincere in the way that makes him Stiles' best friend. "Seriously."  
   
"Thanks, buddy. I'll text you tomorrow, okay? Make sure you're still alive."  
   
"Make sure  _you're_ still alive."  
   
Stiles snorts. "See ya."  
   
"Later."  
  
After they hang up, Stiles thinks about tossing his cell back on the coffee table so he can finger himself without chimes or buzzings dragging his attention.   
   
On second thought, he can probably find a way to angle himself in the in the mirror, snap a selfie with at least the barest tease of the plug inside of him. It might Derek here that much sooner.   
   
One day it won’t be like this. One day Kate will have a psychotic break up, or maybe just die – which Stiles feel guilty about thinking for all of zero seconds, or maybe the Argent’s and other hunter families will decide to just throw her in a dungeon or something – hunters probably have dungeons – and free Derek from his deal to watch over her. He’s paid beyond his blood debt for the lives his uncle took from them.   
   
Each day that magical-fairy-unicorn-rainbow day doesn’t come, Stiles’ hollow ache grows a little  
deeper. But it doesn’t matter how empty the gnawing makes him. Derek is wild and power and sturdy, guileless goodness, and there are enough of his corded muscles and hungers and deep dark forests to patch the wounds that grow wider in Stiles every day.  
   
Until then, Stiles can breathe through the wanting. He can wait, impatient and fidgeting, for Derek to be in town.   
   
Because someday, Stiles know Derek will stay.


End file.
